


Spinner

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Gen, Russian Roulette, The N word, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27027835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: The gun rattles in JT's large hand.  Despite the fat lip, Bright keeps running his mouth.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twice_before_Friday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/gifts).



> Happy belated Birthday, Friday! 
> 
> The genfic you write is super hard to do and I have mad respect for you after attempting my own.
> 
> Me: *backspace key* sorry mal its not ur bday no dick this time

JT’s eyes wink open in total darkness. Light from their bathroom streaks over their bed. He pads into the bathroom and catches his wife straightening up from a deep slump. Tally sits on the toilet lid in her camisole and her bumblebee pajama shorts. The pregnancy test which Tally lobs into the trash bin rustles the plastic grocery bag lining.

“It was just old chicken. I’ll be fine,” she says.

JT kisses the top of her hair and rubs the goosebumps on her arms. “Pretty sure you hacked up your spleen. Stay home, hon.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” says Tally. Her knees raise up as she claps a hand over her mouth.

It’s a 7-4 workday for JT. Otherwise, he would pull up the reality show they were watching together last night. Instead, he puts Tally’s phone on its wireless charger. He checks their supply of Immodium, Gatorade, and canned soup before heading out.

JT brews coffee first thing before he and his partner Dani meet with Gil. He brings an extra cup of coffee and hands it to Dani who is pouting at her computer monitor.

“Going Hollywood on me?” asks JT because Dani wears dramatic sunglasses.

“If you got a problem with my look, don’t give me no star treatment,” says Dani. She takes the coffee and flicks up her middle finger to raise the sunglasses over her forehead..

“Friendly advice, partner. Don’t take nothing off for less than ten G’s,” says JT.

Dani almost spits out coffee.

“Hey, you see any red squiggles on my screen? Help a sister out,” requests Dani, clamping her lips into a tight frown. She pinches the back of her neck.

Despite five days’ rest including the weekend off, Dani suffers headaches from when Berkhead knocked her down. JT helps Dani as much as he can and watches out for his team.

The wind chill from last night causes two hour delays for the public schools. No murders get called in during the usual Godless hours. JT doesn’t for one minute think that nobody got murdered; the inevitable signal 7 from dispatch is likely delayed by cold gales sharp as rakes dragging trash cans and snapping power lines. 

When they meet with Gil, they bask in their unusually slow start. Warm coffee and cold cases. JT offers updates and investigative plans for his pending cases while Dani submits print-outs on the copycat killer ready for the deputy prosecutor. Dani keeps her back to the window. Though she avoids direct sunlight, her eyes demure into pained slits.

While Berkhead is locked up, the motherfucker who JT holds responsible for Dani’s concussion is absent. JT has been meaning to have a word with Gil’s boy since he proofread the report. Dani’s statements scroll in the back of JT’s head. Irritation lances through JT.

Bright suggested that he and Dani split up. Bright hadn’t looked out for Dani. Bright left her on her own with blind spots that one shield couldn’t cover. Either one could have swallowed their tongue, but it was JT’s partner who ate it.

It’s not that JT doesn’t like Bright. He fucking hates the guy. Especially when JT clocks out hours after when he was supposed to leave. 

Blair Berkhead refuses to testify against her husband in court. Given his exposure to battered women who open their doors when abusive spouses come a knockin’, JT isn’t the least bit surprised. Dani needs JT’s help finding Nico. Just how far can a man with a trick hand get? Further than JT can throw pipsqueak profilers.

JT is big mad when he comes home to his poor wife passed out on the couch. He misses his chance to talk to her about this morning. JT touches her shirt stretched tight from the hot water bottle. Then he piles on Tally’s favorite afghan. Though she is sick as a dog, Tally would take his head off if he moved her.

“Love you, honey,” says JT before he backs away from no man’s land.

* * *

The call comes in at zero two hundred hours. JT gathers confidence inside the victim’s apartment. Clues aren’t lost to the windy elements. Whatever is out of place was likely moved by the killer.

Bright pretty much skips to the body which irks JT. Strong dislike towards Bright distracts JT from reading the scene. Bright is volatile, cavalier, and outrageous. He freaks out all by hisself in a quiet room, no matter how many cops or gangsters are watching. Yet Gil spoils Bright who badgers the lieutenant for more than one special favor. The more favors which people do for Bright, the more people like him.

JT hates babysitting someone who doesn’t get teamwork. Whenever JT turns a corner or hovers near an exit to arrest a suspect with Bright popping up unexpectedly, JT feels that instinctual expectation from Gil and now Dani to protect the washed up little G-man. No one, not even JT, expects Bright to cover JT in dangerous situations. The colored double standard burns him, so much.

The last place where JT ever wants to be is a tight corner with Bright at his back.

* * *

The gun rattles in JT's large hand. Despite the fat lip, Bright keeps running his mouth.

“Revolver handguns were common during the October Revolution in Russia. Accounts written in the 1920s confirm their widespread use in civil war. Preferred for their simple and easily repairable design in the damp cold. In the last days of WWI, tsarist army officers removed one cartridge before spinning the chamber. Dialing the reaper, so to speak,” says Bright. His teeth are lined in red with his pale gums shining in contrast. 

“Just one bullet gets took out?” retorts JT. His tone is clipped, because he will crack if he goes on talking.

They’re both in a warehouse located in Kensington, keeping company with a trio of Trinitario dealers in league with Saulo Reyes, Crooklyn crime boss. Bright wasn’t looking out for JT; he wasn’t even looking out for himself. Hence, why JT stews in his perspiration with the pointed sight of a pistol digging in like a thorn in his leg-- the barrel aimed at his sweaty balls.

“Play the game or lose it all,” says one gangster who is bony black with a voice melodic and deep as a song from hell. One twitch of the gangster’s hand makes JT throw up both hands and he chokes down a scream.

“Russians are hardcore. They played with odds of five instead of one?” asks the second gangster who is bulkier and wearing a silk shirt with thick silver chains.

“The term ‘Russian roulette’ was coined in pulp fiction. The character, who was German, played a variant which removes five rounds,” answers Bright.

JT wants to scream at Bright not to give the lowlifes any more ideas.

“Next time we need to shorten a wager, we’ll do it like in Soviet Russia,” says the third gangster who has intricate zig zags buzzed in his short and coarse curls.

“Tsarist Russia, actually,” says Bright. He gets his face smashed twice into the peeling green velvet of the cards table. A wild joker sticks to his brow before it flutters beneath the table.

“Go time,” says the first gangster. His thin features in the industrial lighting turn him into a leering skull.

“Wait!” cries Bright. “This is a man’s life. At least let him speak his peace.”

“You don’t like your partner’s chances, little man?” taunts a gangster.

“He’s not my partner,” grits JT. His nostrils flare and he sucks in his own stink before he flicks the open cylinder with his clammy finger. The cylinder closes on its pivot. JT’s vision has never felt sharper as he examines the instrument of death. He notices the smooth pattern of wood grain in the dark brown grips. The rough texture of the grip panels. JT’s greasy prints dull the silver sheen of her short barrel and chunky cylinder. Dust motes float, hyper defined in the light which makes her shine.

“You got any last words, Detective?”

“I had good parents. They were married; had us kids. My family did good. I should’ve gotten settled sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t make one,” says JT, sweating bullets.

He wraps his lips around her in a hard kiss. JT cocks the hammer back. He feels the chamber line up between the hammer and the barrel and then he squeezes the trigger. The hammer strikes the empty chamber. Vibrations numb his arm and deaden in his parched mouth. His enamel rings like a bell except for his dental fillings which are like cold lead.

His arm droops with all his strength drained. Spit hangs down like a fateful thread, connecting trembling flesh to gun metal. 

“Again, nigga.”

“Jesus,” croaks Bright. He says it like “Hey Zeus.”

Bright invokes the tired gag of guessing JT’s name.

“Not even,” huffs JT. He looks at Bright and the satisfaction flickering in those blue eyes ignites a fire in JT. Bright gets what he wants. For whatever reason, Bright wants JT’s attention.

“You’re not done. Speak now or forever hold it,” says Bright. He’s an arrogant and isolated bastard but his creeper peepers are dead on. He’s right. JT is a dead man who still needs to talk.

He remembers his old bike when he stuck colorful plastic clothespins and baseball cards to thin wire spokes. Faster. Louder. The pink, blue, and green clothespins blur like rainbow pinwheels blown by the winds of fate. Baseball cards click together frantically like the crickets. As JT zooms downhill on sizzling hot pavement, free wheelin', no helmet.

JT speaks as though he’s not overwhelmed by the zipper pull ratchet wrench noises from the cylinder as it turns like a man's luck. “One time when I was a uni. My cruiser was parked. I saw a hooptie and a Benz collide near a bodega. Eyewitness said that the Benz did an illegal turn. But I saw the whole thing. Black guy hit the white chick. Brother in the hooptie was at fault. It wasn't the Benz. I filed the wrong report anyway. Bothers me,” admits JT.

The gangster’s pistol chafes his thigh while the old revolver presses cool relief into his feverishly pounding skull. Though terror induced lockjaw, JT smirks at Bright’s wordless shock. His bravado bleeds out of him after he squeezes the trigger. JT blinks at the round of applause which he gets. The gangster wielding the handgun (that could pop JT’s nuts) bangs on the card table in lieu of clapping hands.

“JT, you didn’t,” gasps Bright, amazed.

“You try making war on sand. Any line you put down for decency’s sake don’t stay where it’s supposed to,” says JT. He’s hot all over like he’s once more entrenched in blood red dunes.

“The only peeps who can vindicate me aren’t around to do it. Between me and my maker, I have no excuse for what I did. You’re supposed to stick with your team. Letting down your brother is betraying the whole unit. I’m guilty.” JT gnashes his lips. “Never thought I was carrying my own bullet. Coward’s way to go.”

He yells, a final scream which shatters like a mirror reflecting a man’s soul, shards of noise which scrape a layered cacophony of incredulity and anguish, syllables like glass chewed and spat from a madman lost in a desert.

When JT releases the trigger, the hammer drops.

The revolver spins on the floor, barrel seeking out its next contestant.

Bright’s gauze wrapped hand shakes on top of JT’s fist clenched on the table. JT’s free hand gropes for Bright’s. Fearful panic takes on a new shape when the pistol aimed at JT shifts to the nape of Bright’s pale neck.

“Don’t. I’ll play again. Not him,” blathers JT. He can’t believe that he’s throwing himself back into the game.

“You’re done, soldier.” It’s the gangster with the fancy buzzed hair. “Now you shut up. I gotta know what kind of skeletons this wise ass gonna own up to.”

“It is my turn,” insists Bright. He jabs the revolver beneath his scruffy chin and fires the revolver more than once in quick succession. By the third rattling click, Bright turns purple in the face and dry heaves. He doesn't eat enough to make sick. The revolver thumps the table. “Oh my God.”

“What the fuck?!” 

“Nuh uh,” says the gangster with the silk shirt and chains. He yanks Bright’s hair and slaps him around. The gangster leaves stinging red patches on Bright’s skin. “That don’t count.”

“Fuck you. He took his shots the same as me!” shouts JT. He swallows bile.

“No, this cocksucker’s gonna tell us a story.” The gangster swings the cylinder open and shows JT the bullet lined up in the fourth chamber. He cocks the hammer, laughing like a hyena as he spins the rounds. “You were mouthing away so much earlier. Why so shy, wise ass?”

“Tell me if I'm right. Is this gun stolen? Did you take it? How did you really get a hold of an oldie like this?” asks Bright.

“Was my uncle’s,” answers one of the gangsters. “Took it off of his body.”

“Thought so. This had to have belonged to an older gentleman. I notice that it’s a model which requires manual ejection of the empty cartridge. What’s more, my associate needed to pull the hammer backward each time he went,” says Bright. “Modern revolvers only require trigger action to force the hammer and release it.”

“You loved the original owner of the gun very much. He was like a father and his death is still a very painful loss,” says Bright. “It shows in how you’ve faithfully maintained it despite being so young in a generation inclined to replace broken treasures.”

“Cut the shit. Famous last words?”

A sick part of JT feels a rush of thrill like he’s on a rollercoaster tilting down from the sun. He’s about to find out exactly who Bright really is behind the glib questions and rapid fire info dump. Bright wipes the barrel before pointing it under his chin.

“If I may,” begins Bright. He faces JT as though JT were the only man in the warehouse who matters. “My profile of you is complete. Second to Gil, you are a good man. You deserve a sound life, JT. You deserve your own life outside of the job. The values you carry-- honor, fairness, bravery, honesty-- I see how much good you do. I like it. I like you. You would be the best father and your children will be very fortunate to follow your example." 

“Thank you,” says JT, after a strained beat. He's lucky that he hasn't yet soiled his boxers.

“You’re very welcome!” chirps Bright. He thumbs the hammer and curls his finger within the trigger guard. He gets a blank click.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” whines Bright, drawing a morbid smile from JT.

“This is not fucking funny, bruh,” says JT. “But if there is a God, then He wants you to fess up to your bullshit before you eat it.”

“Quite a hypothetical,” says Bright. He readies the gun. “Fine! Mother knew that my dad was a monster. She was drinking months before my dad's arrest. She effing knew! I will never forgive her. For the victims that both of us could have saved from The Surgeon. Never! What a bitch.”

“Don’t talk about your mom like that, man,” says JT. “You know you sound like a petty cunt?”

The gangsters concur with JT’s opinion of Bright after a brief, almost pithy, explanation of Bright's serial killer father.

“Eff this! I am not sorry,” declares Bright. He stands up, incensed, and fires off with gusto.

“Sit your ass down,” says JT, when it registers that Bright remains standing. His throat tightens around his heart like a bad, bad case of indigestion. “Settle down and act like a man for once. Do you honestly think you’re better than your mom?”

Bright pulls a face and then he looks down the barrel of a loaded gun with detached skepticism. He sets the weapon on the poker cards and crosses his arms, puffing up in anger as he is mocked by men of color with bigger guns.

“Seriously, Bright. This could be the end of the line for you. Are you actually any better than she is?” urges JT.

“No?” offers Bright. He shifts his weight on a hard chair, his upper body tilting as he crosses his legs. His foot shakes the cards table. His bandaged palm rubs underneath his dripping red-rimmed eyes, eyes vivid blue against the dingy, torn gauze.

“I’m as bad as Mother. My baby sister, Ains, told me that she saw a man in the basement. Where Doctor Whitly had his workshop. I convinced Ains that it was her imaginary friend. I thought I was protecting her innocence. Ultimately, I perpetuated the gaslighting which Mother did to me. I know what I saw. Ains could’ve seen anything, too. I should have listened and believed her. If only...”

Bright leans forward and snatches up the revolver. The rumpled and blood speckled collar of his button up shakes as Bright sobs. The vast whites of his eyes are tinged by gray; darkness pooling like blood under the skin beneath his clumped lashes. A demented grin skews his puffy lip. Before JT can muster another word, Bright takes his last shot. 

Boom.


	2. Chapter 2

JT heads back to the precinct from the defense attorney’s office after a recorded interview with a primary murder suspect. He plays the interview while he drives the decrepit, low-end import issued by city government. After he writes notes in the parked work vehicle, JT marches to his desk. He steps lightly closer to his lieutenant’s door, unaware that he’s held his breath until he’s transcribing his case notes at his workstation.

Gil’s door remains shut. JT sees Dani’s boots under the desk which means that she’s out of office for the Berkhead trial. JT expects to be left alone, exactly what he prefers after Gil put him on short-term leave. He’s on task until a typed criminal profile falls out of a thin physical file. Though the papers land blank side up, JT knows it’s a criminal profile which Bright handled. Bright uses higher quality paper than what’s necessary. Little threads of blue and red break up the off white color. JT thumbs the consistency of the thick paper which feels like dollar bills.

If Dani were at her desk, she’d be checking in on him after what happened in Kensington. 

The last time they talked, Dani snatched the check for their dinner. They were both smiling over baby news which JT, as a first time father, couldn’t keep to himself. JT’s hands banged the table when Dani clicked the pen to sign the merchant copy receipt.

“JT! You’re safe. We’re okay. We’re having fun. Remember fun?” said Dani, without blinking. “You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?”

“I had whiskey with Gil,” retorted JT. Their conversation rated as one of the top ten suckiest man talks that JT experienced, yet another reward for surviving. In addition to the night sweats and a myriad of stress reactions when it _clicks_. That JT’s back to work and Bright--

Dani pulled a face at him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this to you, but you could use…”

“... a body, yeah, it’s crossed my mind, partner,” said JT. He wouldn’t have to wait long for the weekend to give him not one, not two, but three new murders.

The two dead women were related. The young girl lived with her aunt. JT studies the bloody scrimmage upon the kitchen floor. The kitchen smells like a public pool with how much bleach someone used to deep clean prior to the killings. JT steps around the unidentified white male in a gray hood with cut out holes and blood soaked gardening gloves. The women’s necks were lacerated by a laundry line.

JT doesn’t care to know why these people snapped. He searches for the how. How a white man’s blood stains the nylon rope strung around two black women. He makes himself examine the ceiling, walls, and cabinet panels. The process is almost engrossing enough for JT to forget Bright’s absence.

* * *

Gil kicks JT out of his precinct over shots of whiskey. JT sees it coming as soon as the bottom right drawer slides out in his lieutenant’s office. Gil would never allow alcohol for a detective who is on call, meaning that JT will not be on call.

“What happened to you and Bright doesn’t sound like the usual roulette. It’s not how I’ve seen it played. More like shoot ‘n’ tell,” says Gil.

JT agrees. “Buddy of mine who was a POW told me that the insurgents would make him slide the gun back and forth with another G.I. until someone lost the game. Then another American would have to tag in.”

“Situations get different with Bright,” says Gil.

JT says what’s on his mind before he takes the shot. “I’m sorry, Gil. I couldn’t save your boy from his own dumbass luck.”

“You got him to the hospital.”

“I went, yeah, but those thugs…” JT trails off. His empty glass clinks Gil’s desk. His eyes prickle and he can say it’s the whiskey.

“You stole the guy’s pistol and scared them off. Now it’s up to PD to catalog individuals affiliated with Trinitarios. You will get as much help possible to make positive IDs. Our area captain and I will link up with gang intervention who might help. One way or another, the city will get those assholes.”

“I know, boss. I know how it works,” says JT. Gil means that the gangsters’ seedy lives will catch up to them if the cops don’t.

“What happened to Bright wasn’t your doing. I’ve seen your work. I also know how Bright works and when he doesn’t,” says Gil, intent on unburdening JT’s conscience.

“I let him go off on his own. We disagreed. I hung back and thought, well, he’ll learn,” says JT. “I couldn’t stand him. Your boy’s not one of us.”

Gil pours more drink, gives him another shot, another chance to speak.

“Why the hell did you take him on, Gil? I love you, but he’s not cut out for the line of duty,” says JT.

“I sought out Bright for the same reasons that I chose Powell,” answers Gil.

JT ponders his dubious reaction from when he first met his partner. She had no sense of humor, never volunteered information about herself, and made him feel like he was intruding with a “how’s your day, partner?” But they needed each other, both of them worn down by the pressure of unsolved cases.

“And for the same reasons that I fished you out of the candidate pool,” continues Gil.

“Me? I wasn’t a problem child,” protests JT, surprised.

“You clearly don’t remember your probationary period the way I do. Stomping around my precinct. No blinking. Staring contest with anyone who asked you about your work,” says Gil. He smooths down the smile twitching under his beard hairs.

“Well, shit. I thought I got in on veterans’ preference,” says JT.

“It put you on top of my list,” confirms Gil. “But I could’ve picked the other guy. I didn’t want to put up with a war machine. Now I’m getting older than dirt.”

“Boss,” says JT, but Gil isn’t finished.

“The kid’s insane but he sees what the good boys and girls choose not to. Already, our solve rate’s up. Next year, I come up before a panel of officers and advance to captain,” says Gil. He gets to his feet and pats JT’s shoulder. “I like you for this office. When I’m up and out, you’re Bright’s lifeline to the only work he cares about. You need him, too. Regardless of first impressions, Bright is a team asset. Take two weeks off. Use them.”

“This is what I get for wanting your job,” says JT. He and Tally don’t plan to make an only child. They will need two cars and a house with space for a carport if not a garage.

His thoughts line up like cylinder to barrel. When JT is sweating bullets inside his car, the iPhone shakes in his hand. With a minute twitch of his trigger finger, he shoots off his text to Bright.

* * *

His text stays unread. JT considers hitting dial but finds other things to do, shit to fix up around his and Tally’s apartment. Tally seems happier with JT taking care of groceries and dinner. The time off of work is paid leave. JT feels satisfaction in providing for his wife, giving her all the leisurely fucks in the name of knocking her up. She cries the night before JT resumes his full-time hours, weeping more brokenly than when his life was endangered. JT loves being missed.

He’s pleasantly surprised by the cookies and the Hallmark card on his desk with handwritten messages worded along the lines of “you didn’t die yay.” JT supposes that even Hallmark wouldn’t have the perfect card for that occasion. JT dives back into his voicemail and emails and doesn’t think of his emotions for days straight.

When they get the call to cordon off a daycare center, JT wants to get angry at himself for enjoying his workplace too much and inviting the world to fuck with him. His guts settle when he realizes that a care worker is murdered after hours. It is a crying shame. The parents are shit out of luck looking for sitters, but none of their babies came to harm.

Bright clasps his arms behind his long coat, admiring many finger paintings as he plants his loafers on an ABC mat adjacent to the victim’s bloody handprints.

“Bright!”

He breaks form to receive a fierce hug from Edrisa. Edrisa plows into Bright with enough zeal to send them spinning and they almost dance a circle around the tracks of blood. Dani grabs Bright by the coat and drags him away from the yellow markers placed on the soiled ABC mat.

Dani and Bright stand close when Bright smooths his brown hair and turns to look at JT. His altered appearance catches JT off guard. Bright’s unhealthy pallor is emphasized where he shaved off his stubble. His brown hair grew inches below his ear. The most drastic change is the shaved hair on the right side of Bright’s head. If JT didn’t know any better, it looked like Bright was experimenting with his style.

“We need to talk,” says JT. “When you’ve got the time.”

“We can talk in a bit. Can I get a ride from you?” requests Bright, as though nothing’s changed between him and JT.

JT drops back from the victim’s body and focuses on the scene messy with childish things.

* * *

Bright slides onto the cement floor stained with oil and scuffed by boots and industrial rubber treads. If JT had blinked, he would’ve missed the smoke bursting from the cylinder gap of the revolver. Shortly after, a tongue of flame licks the barrel. The gauze wrapped around Bright’s already injured hand is singed black, as well as the cuff of Bright’s jacket sleeve. The end strands of Bright’s hair crisp like brittle wires, glowing orange at the tips. His scalp, ear and his temple and his neck glisten a deep red, coated in sooty residue. His facial hair is gone, taken away like the first layer of skin. He twitches in agony from severe powder burns.

JT slams the cards table into two gangsters. His ears ring from proximal gunshots. Splinters from the cards table glance off of his zip up hoodie. Distantly, JT observes the light beams showing white through the bullet holes in the cards table. The green felt is scorched around the bullet holes.

He gets a hold of the same pistol which had been aimed at his babymakers. He screams when they run, but he can’t leave. Bright is down, but not out. And it’s not looking pretty. JT crouches down, and begs Bright to hang on. JT’s breath over Bright’s raw skin makes Bright kick out in pain, stung by the tears leaking from his lashless eye. JT covers his mouth to keep out the stench. As long as Bright keeps squeezing JT's hand, they'll be okay.

* * *

“This is why no text back,” says Bright. He unfolds a sheaf of papers and offers it to JT.

JT inspects the arrest warrant. He pops open the leather loop of his holster and puts the perpetrator’s address into the GPS installed in the work vehicle.

“Why you making me look bad, man? I take off two weeks and you went and found the guys who did this to us,” grumbles JT.

“Only one of them,” says Bright. “I imagine you’ll use any means necessary to obtain the others’ names.”

“How.”

“The Smith & Wesson numbers on the revolver. It was the last thing I saw before kaboom,” says Bright. “The registered owner had quite a few nieces and not many nephews who would’ve inherited a revolver with antiquated ammo. The cartridge must have been from the 70s for the percussion cap to have destabilized and combusted.”

“You listen here, Bright. You stay put in this car. I make the fucking arrest.”

“JT, I’ve had time in the burn unit to think about our game of roulette. I’d prefer to stick with you. Let me watch your back. Our guy has friends.”

“We’re not buddy cops. My name is not Starsky. You are not Hutch,” says JT. He sighs. “Do you at least have a vest?”

“It’s more like a waistcoat,” says Bright, smiling in his three-piece suit.

“Sheesh. Do you even have any brains to blow out?!” JT makes duck lips as he resists cussing out Bright for his idiocy.

JT does, however, let Bright open the backseat door when he hauls out a young gangster in handcuffs. He’s eager to drag the guy into an interview room.

“So when we were both spinning to win, you couldn’t have told me what the J stands for??” retorts Bright. JT dials up the volume on the radio. It’s a long drive to the precinct, him and his team mate.

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that racial slur words are not used excessively. This fic does not endorse systemic prejudice. I'm also not into guns and probably fudged up my facts.


End file.
